Warmth
by QueenSkellington
Summary: "Without me, you will always be nothing more than a frightened child. A lonely little boy, lost in a world where nobody can see him—where nobody cares to see him. A cold, lonely little boy with no home, no family. Nothing. Always begging to be heard, always pleading to be seen."


Quiet. How I absolutely _hated _quiet. When the words stopped flowing from my mouth, that was when the loneliness set in. When my questions went unanswered, and my words went unheard, that was when it really was crushing. I could disappear and nobody would ever know the difference, and the silence screamed that at me. But this room…this one room always remedied that. I had no idea why, or how it comforted me, but it did.

I sit myself down on the creaking bed, crossing my legs in front of me. My hands tighten around my staff as I place it in my lap, and my pale fingers drift across the well-worn surface of the abused wood. There's deep indents from damages long past, nicks and scrapes in it from summers and winters long forgotten. Touching these marks makes me feel comforted too, like somehow I'd caused them. Somehow I'd been responsible for creating the history of this relic. Of course that was impossible though.

I sigh, looking away from the staff and over at the roaring fire crackling in the small cast iron stove in the far corner of the bedroom. My polar opposite, yet I'm always so attracted to it. I stand from the bed, carefully setting my staff down as I kneel in front of the stove. I look down at my hands, clenching them and unclenching them. Cold. They were always cold, as I was, and no matter what I did, no matter how close to the flames I got, I was always cold. But I never stop trying to warm myself, call it a force of habit from some forgotten past, but I keep trying. I press my hands together, bringing them to my lips and exhaling a long breath onto them. A thick fog leaves my lips, frost coating the tips of my fingers and I grit my teeth in annoyance. It had never worked before, but for some reason I wanted it to work _so badly. _I pull my hands from my lips, proceeding to rub my hands together quickly, staring down at them.

_Clink. Clink-clink-clink. Clink._

I look beneath my hands, letting out a frustrated groan. Tiny icicles litter the ground beneath my hands, quickly turning to water and soaking through the floorboards. I finally pull my hands apart, looking down at them as if they'd betrayed me. All the comfort this room had to offer wasn't enough to restrain me from letting out a cry as I lunge forward, digging my fingers into the burning coals and embers of the flames. My brows furrow as tighten my fists around the embers, squeezing them tightly. It _has _to work now. I can't get any closer to the fire!

And there it is. Just a flick, just a tiny moment of slight warmth licks my palm. I break into a grin, burying my hands deeper. I needed more of this alien feeling, more of this beautiful heat, this warmth. It made me feel safe, happy…_alive. _But my joy is short lived. Slowly, ever so slowly, the flames begin to weaken before hissing like an angry snake as they go out completely.

"No…" I murmur, watching ice crystals dull the flaming embers and coat the warm stones, frost slowly working its way through every warm flake of ash and back down to my hands, embracing them. I pull my hands from the frozen ash, staring down at my blackened skin. No damage has been done by the flames, only the ash colors my skin. My teeth grind together once again as my fists clench and I stagger to my feet, letting out a cry of absolute frustration and fury as I drag my soot coated hands through my previously albino hair. That one flick of heat, it hadn't been enough. Hadn't even been close. That tiny moment of being _alive _hadn't been enough to sate me. I wanted to feel warm, to feel that _pulse _of something alive and just getting a taste of it only painfully increased my desire for it.

"Why?!" I demand as I slam my fist against the window, glaring at the moon hanging just outside, "Why would you do this to me? Do you think I wanted this? I just…" my anger slowly dies as I stagger back from the window and back onto the bed hugging myself tightly. "I just want…I want…" _What? _I wanted everything and nothing at the same time and it was tearing me apart. I wanted life, and friends, and family and happiness…but I loved my powers, and my freedom. I wouldn't give them up, but at the same time…I really, really wanted to if it meant I could just hold somebody, or have them hold me, or just have someone _hear me. _

"I want to be warm." I sigh more than speak, unwrapping my arms from around myself and lie down on the bed. "I just want to be warm." I flatten my hand against the stiff blankets on the bed, staring at the soot under my nails. I close my eyes, feeling the texture of the sheet. They're ridiculously stiff and scratchy, and it's not hard to tell they haven't been touched in months. A fine layer of dust lies over the blankets except for where I'd disturbed it previously. Only I had come in contact with these sheets, and I still had no idea why. It's not like it's a bad room they're in, it's small, but not bad.

Wood panels make up the walls and floor, some pieces warped and faded, and a few of the floorboards hang loosely in their spots. A dim oil lamp sits beside the bed, the oil sitting stagnant in its glass globe with the singed wick sticking up proudly from the metal casing. A spider web has formed around the wick, though, and the glass encasing the wick has grown fogged and dusty. The furniture holding the lamp is cheaply made, one leg of the nightstand having a crusty old notebook supporting it to even out the table, and one of the legs stands distinctly dinged and abused. There's also a desk across the room, standing open and less than vacant. Sitting on its open surface are a few yellowed papers, hurried chicken scratch written across each one. I'd studied each paper as if it were some sacred document simply because of the single word written on the top of each paper.

_Jack._

It was always written leaning to the left, the 'J' looping back around itself and the 'k's bottom leg dragging across the page as if the writer had been in too much of a hurry to stop the pen as he continued his thoughts. If only the papers held something of more substance than "Meet me at 6." and things of that nature. I shake my head, pinching my eyes shut again. I'd promised myself I'd stop thinking about it. They were just papers, just like this room. They didn't mean anything. But the thoughts won't leave, they'll never leave and I let out a huff as I turn over to stare at the stuffed animal perched next to the pillow.

It's crudely stitched eyes stare at me, and unlike the rest of the room this you could tell had been touched. I often found myself absently stroking the brittle fabric of the bear, but right now that simply wasn't enough. I grabbed the teddy bear in my trembling hand, pulling it flush against me in a tight embrace of it. Keeping my eyes tightly closed I began to weave a life in my head. Began to spin a tale where I belonged here. Where I was meant to be lying in this bed, peacefully sleeping and awaiting the next day. Awaiting the chores I'd dreg through, and the friends I'd meet, and the good times I was about to have with other people who would listen to me, and love me and—

"That's really quite pathetic you know. Curled up like a child." I blink at the sudden interruption, sitting up, still clutching the tattered bear to my chest, "Although I suppose that's what you are, isn't it?" I growl in response, hurriedly setting the bear back in its proper spot before scrambling from the bed to swoop my staff from the ground.

"So young, what were you, thirteen? Fourteen? It's just not _fair_ is it?" I feel a threatening hand grab my shawl, yanking me off of the bed and onto the hard floor, my weight causing it to creak. "So what do you do about it?" He scoops me up from the ground then, holding me by the front of my shirt, "You ball up and cry, how very, very pathetic of you, Jack."

"You don't know anything!" I respond, swinging my staff around to hit him firmly in the side of the head, but as soon as my staff is about to make contact he disappears, dropping me. I hurriedly reach up to touch my face, ashamed at the frozen tears on my cheeks. I had been crying. _Weak. _

"Well, don't be angry at me. I know you much better than you think I do, whether you admit it or not. Embrace who you've become—what _we _canbecome." He speaks from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. I hold my staff tightly in defense to any attack.

"For the last time, I'm not joining you, Pitch. I don't want to hurt anybody."

"Hurt? Who said I was going to hurt anybody?" He asks, obviously slathering on faux exasperation.

"You did. All you want is to bring people down; to destroy them with fear. I would never be a part of that." I respond, my words losing their resolve at the end. I'm too tired to fight him right now; I just want to sleep in this bed and pretend to wake up to a normal life.

"I never physically hurt anybody; I just…enlighten them—"

"Ha! Interesting choice of words for someone who uses darkness."

"Do _not _interrupt me, Frost." He threatens, "As I was _saying_. I just enlighten them to the true darkness of the world. I do not shroud them in pretty lies when an inconvenient truth is what they need to see. Surely you can indulge in that."

"Not as long as you do." I answer plainly.

"Well, that's quite petty." He huffs, suddenly standing in front of me, "But let me remind you of something, Jack." I can't move away, can't move at all. "Without me, you will always be nothing more than a frightened child. A lonely little boy, lost in a world where nobody can see him—where nobody _cares _to see him. A cold, lonely little boy with no home, no family. Nothing. Always begging to be heard, always pleading to be seen. " I feel like the breath has been knocked from me.

"How—"

"I know you're feeling this way from experience. But you refuse to use logic and sense, so you will _stay _this way as long as you continue on being 'good' as you call it. I will leave you now Jack, but let me remind you." He goes to the window. "I am a recurring nightmare." And just like that he's gone.

Suddenly I feel colder than ever.

Honestly, this really was just a "whatever" piece. It doesn't really have a _purpose_ per se, I just wanted to flesh out some of Jack's feelings when he was first changed. I mean, he lost everything, that's bound to be scary. And if you didn't catch it, that room Jack is in is his old bedroom.


End file.
